


The Lingering Cinders of Time

by cosmickaiju



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodivergent Doctor (Doctor Who), Nonbinary Character, Once Again More War Trauma, Overstimulation, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Fires of Pompeii, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 20:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17690426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickaiju/pseuds/cosmickaiju
Summary: They try their best to focus past the cacophony, on the familiar, spice-scented blue.





	The Lingering Cinders of Time

They step out of their ship, Donna close behind, but it’s only a few brief spans before a deluge of sensation caves in around them. Colors meld with smells, morph into tastes of futures-pasts-possibilities, diffuse and infest and coalesce with the powdery dust— the _dead—_ that lingers at the back of their tongue, coats their throat, and it makes them gag. Their body folds in on itself of its own volition, and they find themself sliding down the side of their ships frame, hardly noticing (noticing too much, but it’s hidden in the chaos) the way she scrapes against their back. One hand covers their mouth, holding tight as their frame convulses, the other burying itself deep in their thick hair, twisting, tugging, pulling— a futile attempt at keeping themself grounded in the here and the now; the outer.   
  
Instead, they find themself adrift, pulled beneath the waves of time, thrashed about like nothing more than a weightless piece of debris. The sheer volume of existence, of sensations, crushes down heavily on them, grating their teeth and grinding their bones, standing in stark contrast to the desolation they’d just escaped. Flickering candles in the vastness of time, snuffed out before they had their chance to leave their mark. Too short, too short— frayed threads dangling off the web of time, rather than the still short but brilliant tapestries they were meant to be.   
  
And here, too many— unable to differentiate themself, let alone others, amidst the chaos, threads upon threads upon threads, twisting and weaving and refracting, a cacophony of tastes-sounds-colors in their head, constricting and squeezing until they’re sure they’re going to be compressed down into a marble statue, if they don’t escape soon.  
  
Marble. There’s a sort of irony there, and maybe it was justified, in a circuitous sense, they were turned into that, solidified and returned to Pompeii, only to be shattered alongside all the other remains of civilization they had wrought the destruction of. They think they might laugh at the irony of this, at something far less than what they really deserve, but if they do, they don’t notice it amidst the storm of actuality raging around them.  
  
Except there’s something else they do notice. A burst of blue. A smudge of orange-red-ginger. The sharp tang of something metallic infused with nutmeg. The telltale signs of time travel on non time-sensitive species. Donna. They blink, try to focus through the din, trying to make out her three dimensional form. They think she’s crouched in front of them, no, they’re sure she is, because she’s reaching out now, hesitantly wrapping her hand around their own, trying her best to carefully extricate it from their hair, but they resist, attempt to lean away, but that only serves to press them back harder against their Ship. She hums gently at them, the familiar music soothing and grating all at once.  
  
Thankfully, Donna seems to get the hint, withdraws her hand, but not quite all the way, instead settling it atop one of their knees. It’s warm, familiar, yet another sensation adding to the chaos, not unlike their Ship. The churning of time tempers a bit, enough that the taste of ash in the back of their throat has faded, and they fold that hand onto their stomach instead.  
  
‘Doctor, can you—’ They’re sure she’s trying to speak to them, but the words turn to incomprehensible white noise in their ears. Just another single point in a plethora of sensations, if you thought about it in merely a three dimensional way. They stare blankly at her— through her— and she must correctly come to the conclusion they’ve not processed her words, because she gives their knee an abrupt squeeze, drawing their attention to her momentarily.  
  
‘Doctor, can you look at me? Tell me five things you can see.’ she repeats herself, and they find themselves nodding almost absently in response, their eyes skimming off her face almost immediately.  
  
‘There’s a—’ their voice catches in their throat the first time, words choked sounding so they swallow, try to ignore the acrid taste of ash creeping back in, and try again. ‘There’s a red spaceship over there— too big and flashy for my tastes… and… and it’s pilot… they’ve… I can see their planet, choked and decimated by invasive plant life, they fled. They fled… I can see… I can see their planet, flourishing and beautiful, a trade federation that spans centuries I can….’ they trail off, finding themselves submerged and entangled in the timelines once more.  
  
She squeezes their knee again, harder this time, and they blink again, try to focus on the spice-scented blue of her figure.  
  
‘Right then, not that one. How about you find five things you can feel.’ They nod again, try to speak, find they can’t. They do their best to focus anyways, to comb and weave their way between threads and focus on a mere three dimensions of reality.  
  
Their other hand joins its partner in their hair for a few moments, the sharp tug familiar. One. They let it drop again, this time to their side, palm pressing against the hot concrete beneath them, the warmth seeping into their fingers. Two. They extend their arm out further then, fingers clutching at the blades of grass just within their reach, do their best to focus simply on the smooth, cool texture as it brushes against them. Three. Back now, fingers skimming along the wood grains of their Ship. Four, their _Ship_ , always an anchor for them amidst the chaos. They focus on Donna properly now, a shaky smile stretching across their features as they bring their hand up, rest it atop hers, squeeze.  
  
‘Five.’  
  
They watch, once again able to ignore incessant mass of timelines for the most part, as she lets out a sigh, frowning back at them in return.  
  
‘You had me worried there, Spaceman.’ she admonishes, even as she shifts to stand, reaches out an arm to help them up. They accept it and pull themself up, wavering slightly, before stabilizing. She shoves at their back once they’re steady.  
  
‘You, back in the TARDIS,’ she orders, and they find they don’t have the energy, or the words to protest. Something squeezes in their chest— they’d meant to bring her somewhere she’d enjoy, she deserved nothing less, and here they were. They unlock her door and step inside wordlessly, retreating into the depths of their Ship before she can ask too many questions they don’t have the answers to.  
  
Still, she finds them later, long limbs folded up into a beanbag in one corner of their library, staring a bit absently at the pages of the book open in their hands.  
  
‘Oi! Spaceman!’ Her words jar them out of their reflections, and they close the book, toss it lightly to the side as she continues. ‘Are you just going to sit around all... whatever time of day it is in here and mope?’  
  
They drop their gaze guiltily at this. ‘I wanted to bring you somewhere nice after….’ they mutter, trailing off.  
  
‘And I will absolutely take you up on that offer. But not until you’re feeling better.’ she retorts sharply, and something in her surety makes them relax, shoulders dropping a few centimeters.  
  
Their usual assurances that they’re fine sit heavy in their chest, but they don’t voice them. It seems she can tell anyways however, expression softening a bit.  
  
‘Budge up.’ And they do, shifting to one side and letting her settle beside them. They watch, warily, as she rests a hand on their arm.  
  
‘It’s not your fault.’  
  
Part of them wants to protest— it is their fault— or deny, dismiss, and run off on another adventure. But the words stick in the back of their throat, and their limbs feel like lead. They feel trapped, between one sort of vulnerability and another, and the book in their hands trembles. She squeezes their arm, and they tense momentarily, before relaxing as she leans gently against their side.  
  
‘It’s okay if you can’t say anything. But it’s not your fault. You didn’t have a choice.’


End file.
